“Get out of our house! My son would never abandon his mother!”
My heart ached with hurt and fury. My mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, practically worshipped my husband’s ex-girlfriend, a woman named Penelope. Their romance had started in their youth, when they were just eighteen, and soon after, they’d had a daughter. They never married, drifting in and out of each other’s lives, but Margaret adored Penelope and her only granddaughter—after all, she had no other grandchildren.
Penelope and my husband, Oliver, lived like a broken fairground ride—together for a year, then apart for two or three while she ran off with other men, only to come circling back again. This went on until their daughter turned twelve. During one of these breaks, Oliver met me. He dreamed of a proper family, where a child wouldn’t have to keep track of “new daddies,” and I desperately wanted to give him that stability. And so our story began—full of hope, but shadowed by the past.
We moved into Oliver’s flat in Manchester, where his mother also lived. From day one, I felt her icy disdain, sharper than a February wind. She made no secret of disliking me, and every chance she got, she would sigh wistfully over Penelope. The moment I left the house, in Penelope would waltz, bottle of wine in hand, swapping cosy stories about “the good old days.” Once, I overheard her sneer,
“Don’t get too comfortable, Emily. Ollie always comes back to me. That’s just how it is.”
Margaret, watching me with pity, added, “And the sooner, the better…”
When I got pregnant, Oliver was over the moon. But the happier he was, the gloomier Margaret became. Left alone with me, she’d launch into heavy talks, urging me to reconsider.
“Think about it, love. Oliver’s just having a bit of fun. He’ll drop you like he always does and go back to Penelope. And honestly, I don’t need more grandchildren—one’s plenty. Here, take this money. Don’t drag it out.”
Her words burned like a branding iron. I refused, but she wouldn’t let up, as if she wanted me to snap so she could shrug and say, “Told you so.” Finally, I’d had enough and gave Oliver an ultimatum: we move out, or we divorce.
Margaret, overhearing, beamed.
“Well, Emily, better start packing! My son would never leave his mother!”
We sold the flat, topped it up with money from my parents, and bought Margaret a one-bedroom place while we moved into a two-bedroom. By the time our son was born, we were settled in a home free of Penelope’s smug smiles and tight dresses. Eventually, Penelope remarried and moved in with Margaret, bringing her daughter along. Cramped in that tiny flat, they must’ve been miserable—but that wasn’t my problem.
Life smoothed out: I went back to work, our son started nursery, and everything seemed peaceful. Then disaster struck—Margaret broke both her heels in a nasty fall, leaving her bedridden. Penelope had back problems and couldn’t care for her, and her new marriage had crumbled by then. With Margaret stuck in plaster for two months, Oliver insisted on moving her in with us.
Our son was relocated to our bedroom, terrified of this strange grandmother he’d never met. For a month, we juggled caring for her—Oliver rushing home at lunch to help, me taking over at night. I bit my tongue, forcing patience, until I noticed my clothes wrinkled and my makeup tampered with. But how? She couldn’t even get out of bed!
The truth came out when our son was ill, and I stayed home. Hearing the door open, I assumed Oliver had come back early—but it was Penelope, standing in the hallway. Turns out, Margaret had given her a key! She’d been popping in during the day, chatting away like old times and rummaging through my things as if they were her own.
When I caught her, she barely flinched. Brushed right past me, invisible as air, and strolled into Margaret’s room. Their laughter floated out, and I shook with rage. This was my house! I was looking after a woman who loathed me, feeding her, enduring her jabs, while my son cowered at her presence—and she’d invited Penelope here to mock me?
“Get out!” I snapped, snatching the key from her. “This is my home, and you don’t get to waltz in like you own it!”
She just smirked. “I’m not here for you, Emily. Scram.”
Margaret joined in, hurling insults, but I’d stopped listening. Grabbing Penelope by the arm, I shoved her out, tossing her coat and boots after her. Margaret screeched, but her words bounced off me like rain off a brolly.
When Oliver got home, he already knew—his mother had rung him. He demanded I return Penelope’s key, saying she “cheered Margaret up.” Absolutely not. That woman had no respect for me, our home, or the effort we’d put in. Why should I tolerate her—or her uninvited guest digging through my lipsticks?
After that, Margaret openly needled me, and Oliver took her side. Our marriage creaked under the strain, and Margaret, of course, seemed thrilled. I tried explaining—I’d put up with her, but not strangers treating my home like a bloody boutique. He didn’t listen. Now I’m at a crossroads, unsure how to save this family while Margaret and her darling Penelope chip away at everything I’ve built.
